Grayson

“He’s all yours.” Charity slips her arms inside her leather jacket and starts toward the motel room door.

I’ve been waiting inside the room for five minutes while Charity—which I’m sure isn’t her real name—got dressed in the bathroom. Lawson is asleep on the bed, his wrists bound together behind his back.

Most motels stopped using open-frame headboards a while back. Less risk that you’ll walk in to find a person tied or cuffed to the bed. I’ll have to improvise.

“He drank it all?” I ask before she opens the door.

“Yeah. He did,” she says. “Room’s in his name. Good luck, sugar.” She leaves, and I lock and chain the door behind her.

I push back my hoodie. Draw the second row of curtains over the window. I lay my burner cell on the table, glancing at the time. Lawson got in a good half hour before he passed out.

Opening the small duffle bag, I dig out Duct tape, Zip Ties, and the rest of my supplies. I slip on a pair of gloves before pulling a black ski mask over his face, the eye and mouth slats open to the back of his head.

He starts to rouse as I cut away the necktie Charity used to bind his wrists. I roll him over and Zip Tie his wrists together, then make quick work of the rest.

“What’s going on?” Lawson asks, groggy.

He’s not drugged. Still just bleary from a night of drinking. The beer I paid Charity to give him contained a very important component for this next act. And by the tent he’s sporting in the sheets, she kept her word.

“Be still,” I tell him. “Your wrists are tied for your own protection. If you move, try to escape, the Zip Tie around your dick will cinch tight. The more you move or struggle, the tighter it will get.” I back up a few paces. “You get the idea.”

It’s in our nature to rebel. Lawson panics, tries to free his wrists, and cries out when the plastic tie around his dick does just as I said it would.

“You can slip out in a few hours,” I say. “When the Viagra wears off.” I toss the beer bottle in the trash. “Until then, I need some answers.”

He begins to shout, and I press the tip of the blade to his throat. “There’s another way this can end even quicker.” I insert the tip just enough to draw blood so he knows I’m serious.

“What kind of sick fuck…?” Lawson is still panicking, but he’s at least stopped testing the restraints. Progress.

I wait for him to calm down. Then I take a seat across from the bed.

“What do you want from me?” he asks.

That’s the right question. It’s not my finest trap, but sometimes simple and concise is what’s needed. A modest trap that fits the crime. I’m sure his wife sitting at home with their newborn would agree.

What Lawson can’t know is who I am. The information I need can give that away. Even an oblivious crime-scene tech can put it together. I could just kill him once I’m done, but that would leave a body. Another messy murder to handle.

Besides, I try to save the real fun for bigger fish.

“A friend of mine has gone missing,” I start. “The police aren’t giving up any information on the most recent murder. I need to know if the victim is my friend.” I pause here. “He owes me money.”

Lawson breathes heavily through the mask. “That’s it?”

“It’s a lot of money,” I add.

“The vic’s name is Christian Zinkowski. Now let me go.”

“That’s unfortunate,” I say, standing. “That just happens to be my friend.” I hover near the foot of the bed. “I need to know who killed him.”

He hesitates before he says, “I don’t have that info.”

“I think you do.” I kick the bed, making the box spring bounce. Lawson curses as the movement causes him to flinch.

“You’re going to tell me everything you know about Christian Zinkowski and the crime scene. I know you are, because despite your actions tonight, you don’t want your family to be hurt. Charity likes to keep a photo gallery of her johns. Her memory’s not that good. She likes having a log of names and fetishes. What they like. What they don’t.” I get close to his ear. “And sometimes, when a john fucks up real bad, she likes to send copies to his family. To his work. Technology is a crazy thing—how so many people can be reached with the click of a button. Like setting off a bomb; lives explode on detonation.”

Michael Lawson tells me everything he knows.

I record the conversation on my phone, and when he’s done, I pack up my supplies, leaving him bound on the bed with his face covered.

“You’re just leaving me here like this?” he asks, panic lacing his voice.

I pause at the door, wondering again if I should simply kill him. I don’t like leaving loose ends. It’s sloppy. I glance at the bed, where he’s still in the same position. Back propped against the headboard. Wrists tied to his dick.

On the other hand, who the fuck is he going to tell?

“You can scream for help now,” I say, cracking the door open. “Or you can wait a few hours for your limp dick to slip out of the Zip Tie. Your choice.”

I wait in the open doorway to see what he’ll decide. His decision is more important than he knows. One shout will end his life.

He doesn’t stir or say a word. Maybe he is smarter than the average tech.

“Think about Grandma and baseball,” I say, then close the door.

I hover outside the room for a moment longer, just to make sure. At Lawson’s silence, I take off through the parking lot.

Maybe I’m going soft. Before London, I wouldn’t have left Lawson alive.

I understand what love is; the emotion, the feeling. Chemicals in the brain—the same chemicals that make up personalities and disorders. At a certain age, it’s nearly impossible to change who we are and how we behave.

But if something significant occurs—chemical-altering emotions felt for the first time—would that impact the chemistry of the brain? Would that change the person, the disorder?

People wake from comas. People who have never been violent suddenly commit murder. And psychopaths feel love for the first time.

What the fuck is the world coming to.

I suppose these are questions for a psychologist.

I just happen to know one. Intimately.